


Inconsequential

by randomscientist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meeting, Kid Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Pre-Canon, Teen Greg Lestrade, Teen Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/pseuds/randomscientist
Summary: In truth, whatever it was between his brother and Lestrade, it'd started long before anyone had thought to keep track. And Sherlock might've been aware, had he searched his undeleted memories more carefully.Of course, two decades on, when he first invited himself past a set of bright yellow tapes, rattling off deductions with cocaine fresh in his system, and made the acquaintance of one less-stupid-than-average officer in particular, no trace of recognition had crossed his mind.





	Inconsequential

The beginning of it all, the  _very_  beginning, had been something of a blur to him. He was simply too young, perhaps, and far too busy examining  _Apis mellifera_ behaviour (and protesting that his brother’s sweating hands left him and his experiment be) to pay much attention to the vastly less interesting world outside of his own.

He’d vaguely registered the commotion surrounding them. Noises. An object or two hitting the ground and being trampled on. Unpleasant, sniggering laughter. His brother’s grip tightening on his wrist, trembling ever slightly. And then there must’ve been another set of footsteps, swift and steady, approaching them from afar. There was shouting. And suddenly, suddenly a pair of feet was somehow planted between them and the other children.

It probably wasn’t until he’d felt the tug of his brother stepping back that he finally glanced up, catching sight of the figure (about the same height as his brother; arms slightly raised to the side, shirt sleeves rolled up and fists clenched) now attempting to shield them both behind. His brother had clearly been surprised.

His brother was never surprised.

Sherlock’s recollection of the  _end_  of the beginning was somewhat clearer. Mycroft had thanked the boy; the two even exchanged names and other bits of triviality. It was all very dull, but Gabriel — something or other — did grin a lot, lopsided and toothy, and it was almost contagious. Almost. It wasn’t as though  _Mycroft_  would ever be seen to offer anything beyond a polite, guarded smile in return. Not that Sherlock had bothered to check.

Upon their parting, Mycroft had let his gaze linger on the other boy’s retreating form in the setting sun, although somewhat differently to the standard, piercing way it would’ve been scrutinising a given individual. Sherlock tried to follow suit, scanning for any information he might’ve missed, only for Mycroft — having noticed — to then look away and apparently towards the trees along the side of the road instead. Sherlock checked out those, too, but didn’t spot anything of particular interest.

Grown-ups often described Mycroft as perceptive but quiet; calm for his age. They saw a well-mannered boy who barely spoke unless it was important, on which occasions he articulated his views tersely and to the point. Indeed Mycroft was never one for worthless conversation, but he would talk to Sherlock, when the brothers were comfortably alone and away from condescending, intrusive eyes. Mycroft was smart and knew a lot, and walking with Mycroft usually involved something fun — his elder brother, annoying as could be at times, did have a way of keeping Sherlock’s mind occupied.

A new lesson in learning to  _observe_ ; a few logic puzzles; or the telling of a historical story that Mycroft thought Sherlock might enjoy. But whatever Mycroft’s experience of events from earlier that day had been, it seemed to have quietened him.

Clutching the books (some of which in a more battered state than they had been just an hour prior) he’d brought to read on the bench by the pond, Mycroft had seemed distracted throughout their walk home from the park they did not frequent.

Yet Mycroft took him back to the same spot the next day, then the day after as well. The two of them (Mycroft keeping his nose in his book for the most part, interfering with Sherlock’s adventures only occasionally) stayed till dusk both days, unperturbed. They never crossed paths with the loud group of boys again. Nor with Garett.

Mycroft had left home for Eton the following week. And that encounter at the park, like many other fragments of their childhood, transient and inconsequential, they each grew to leave behind. Or at least, Sherlock did.

Because really, it was foolish of Mycroft to even entertain the notion that they might run into Gerald a second time. The probability of it was infinitesimally low. And there was no such thing as ‘fate’.

**Author's Note:**

> Erm. So I've acquired a new OTP (with Tumblr side blog @sun-upon-the-antarctic) ~~and thereby a latest means of procrastination~~. Thought I might as well keep a copy on here too.
> 
> I don't suppose anyone would be reading this far, but if you are — have a lovely October! :]
> 
> *Retreats back into cave*


End file.
